


Worthless

by court_dancer10



Series: Worthless [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Depression, Non-Graphic Depiction of Death, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/court_dancer10/pseuds/court_dancer10
Summary: Dylan knew he was worthless. And he knew there was only one thing left to do.





	Worthless

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains non-graphic suicide. Please, don't read this if it may harm you. If you need to talk to a trained volunteer for mental health related problems please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text HOME to 741741.

He knew he was worthless, okay? He didn’t need to see the sports writers talking about how he wasn’t as good as he should be. How, if Arizona hadn’t wasted their pick on him, maybe they would have actually been able to pull together a decent season. He was down in the minors, again, still not good enough to crack the big league.

Seeing Mitch and Connor playing for the teams that had drafted them, actually contributing to scoring goals and trying to get their teams back on track, it hurt. It hurt being left behind. And he knew, realistically, that they weren’t trying to hurt him, but he couldn’t get his brain to believe it. He saw them posting points, playing every night, and they were happy. They didn’t need him. He was only getting in their way, taking up their time when they texted or snapchatted to ask if he was okay, as if they actually cared.

Dylan knew he was being unfair. He knew it was shitty to hold his friends’ success against them, but he couldn’t stop. He wanted so badly to be in their place, to be successful and happy and actually making a difference, but he wasn’t good enough. He never would be.

He knew what Mitch and Connor would say if they knew what he was going to do. They’d tell him he wasn’t worthless, that he just needed more development and that he’d be up in the big leagues in no time. They’d lie, say that they loved him, that they were always there to talk and support him.

They’d say it, but it wasn’t true. They were so wrapped up in their own seasons, training and playing and bonding with their teams, and he fell to the side. He understood, he knew that it wasn’t their fault, but it was just the reality of the NHL. They didn’t have time to be his cheerleaders and to keep him from drowning. It wasn’t their responsibility in the first place.

His team kept telling him to see a therapist, so that he’d have someone who did have time to talk to him and help him with his issues, but he could never bring himself to actually go to one. He didn’t want some stranger knowing his deepest, most private thoughts. If he was going to tell someone about his issues, he wanted it to be someone he actually knew and trusted.

Maybe, though, that was his downfall. Maybe his stubbornness on getting help had led him to this exact moment, cross-legged on his bed, a bottle of sleep meds clutched in one hand and an almost empty bottle of vodka in the other.

He had texts set to send in three hours, more than enough time that there would be no saving him. He had planned this out, making sure that everything was set so that he wouldn’t be interrupted. His team thought he was visiting family, and his family, Marns, and Davo thought he was at a team function. No one would be calling him or showing up at his door to make him lose his nerve. The texts would only be sent after it was too late. He was going to die tonight, and nothing would stop him, he had made sure of that.

He had spent a lot of time debating if sending anything to his friends and family after he had taken the pills was a good idea. There pros and cons, but in the end he decided that the need to tell them how much he loved them and that this wasn’t their fault won out. He didn’t want them feeling responsible for his choices.

He kept each text simple and to the point, but still meaningful. He told his brothers that he loved them, that he was proud of Matthew and that Ryan was his role model. He told them that this wasn’t their fault, and they had always been the most amazing brothers to him. He told Marns that he wished he hadn’t spent so much time hating him, because he had wasted so much opportunity to have a friend as amazing as Mitch. He told him how proud he was that he had made the roster for his home team, and that he loved him, and please don’t feel responsible for anything. Connor was a bit harder. He had always been a bit in love with Connor, but it didn’t feel fair to lay that on him now. Instead, he told him how proud he was to see his best friend make history as the youngest captain in NHL history. He told him he loved him, and, just as he had told his brothers and Mitch, that this was not his fault or responsibility. He sent something to each member of his team, telling them to keep playing hard and how much he had loved playing with them.

He had the most trouble figuring out what to say to his parents. He loved them so, so much, and he didn’t want to leave them feeling guilty. In the end, all he could do was tell them how much he loved them, and how supportive they had been his entire life. He made sure to tell them that he never felt anything but love and supported by them, and stressed that they shouldn’t feel responsible. It wasn’t much, but he hoped it convinced them to not shoulder the blame, though he doubted they wouldn’t.

Dylan knew it was time. Everything was set into place. The messages would go out when it hit the scheduled time, and he needed to make sure that he gave the pills plenty of time to do their thing before the texts were sent. His family may not be able to get to him quickly, but his teammates could.

He looked around once more, looking at the posters and awards hung up around the room, and wished that he could have been good enough to deserve to live. He wasn’t, though, so he downed the bottle of pills, chased it with the rest of the vodka, and layed down, closing his eyes and waiting for the sweet freedom of death.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not encourage suicide. This is how I cope with my own issues (as unhealthy as this method probably is), and if you're in crisis and need to talk to a trained volunteer for mental health related problems please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text HOME to 741741. 
> 
> In this story I say negative things about counselors, but that is not how I actually feel. I know from experience that the thought of talking to a counselor can be intimidating, upsetting, and make you feel as if you're not good enough. Please know that counselors do help, and I encourage anyone needing help to find a trained professional to talk to.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://courtdancer10.tumblr.com)


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